


Mollycoddling

by Lt Indecent (PurpleCompromise)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Reader-Insert, no specific gender for the reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 12:57:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6240247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleCompromise/pseuds/Lt%20Indecent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The General does not believe in mollycoddling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mollycoddling

The general does not believe in mollycoddling.

So, you say nothing when you take your place on the bridge at 0700 hours, uttering a brief summary of the plans for your team today. But, from the subtle draw of his lips, the lines that appear and make his eyes harsh, you know he has noticed. Of course he’s noticed; no amount of posturing and or neat care put into your appearance could possibly cover the hollowness behind your eyes, the emptiness crawling under your skin. Surely everyone you passed today has noticed. You’re an embarrassment to the Order.

But he says nothing, and you return to your post with his approval.

The day is interminable, grinding along before your eyes, every gesture you make performed by rote. You see General Hux twice more before being dismissed for the day, and both times he appears not to have seen you.

This is not unusual. But the hollow cloak presses heavier into your shoulders each time, seizes your heart.

Dinner does not interest you tonight, so you return to your quarters, collapse on your bed without preamble. Your immaculate, high-collared coat is getting wrinkled and your boots are on the blanket, but you cannot dredge up even one scrap of care.

At 1900, your datapad rings, shattering the cloud of silence, and you do not realize that you hadn’t expected him to call for you tonight until the message’s arrival. My quarters, it reads. No signature. No direct command. “My quarters” what?

You know well what.

Not moving from this spot, face-down on your blankets, occurs to you. Would he bother to come find you himself? No, you believe, and so you peel yourself off the bed. Straighten your uniform. Take the familiar path through the halls.

He will ask you. And you will have no idea what to say. You have let your mind get the better of you? That you’re not strong enough to push your emotions aside for the good of the Order? That his faith in you is utterly misplaced?

The door opens readily to you.

General Hux is there, but he isn’t reviewing reports. He isn’t settling any last-minute business. There are no situations that need his immediate attention. He sits neatly in his uncomfortable-looking armchair, eyes fixed on you, framed by the now-closed door. Waiting.

“Lieutenant-Commander.”

Your stomach drops all the way down to Engineering, stance snapping robotically to attention. “Sir.”

The general watches, eyes sweeping coldly over your form, assessing, taking note of every hair out of place, every subtle wrinkle in your coat, any terse pull in your expression. You have not wanted so badly to run and cry since your first weeks of training.

“You did not tell me,” he says.

Your mouth runs dry. “Sir?”

He rises, every movement calculated and precise. General Hux covers the space between you in four steps. “You are unwell.” Gloved fingers hook gently under your chin, lifting your face to inspect it. “Why didn’t you make this known?” His thumb traces your jawline, and you can feel his breath on your lips. It stirs something within the hollowness that has captured your breast.

“I--” Your voice falters, and your face flushes with shame even as you resume, not even a beat between the first word and the next, “--did not want to appear weak in the eyes of the First Order, Sir.”

General Hux drops his hand to his side, but his arm does not swing--it returns neatly to its place. “It is worse for the Order if its leaders do not know their limits. You will take the day tomorrow for health. All reports can be completed from your quarters without consequence.”

“Yes, Sir.” For some reason it feels like a punishment. “Am--” You can feel your throat tighten. “--am I dismissed, General?”

His russet brow arches just a fraction. “No.”

You remain at parade-rest as he surveys you again. Seconds tick by.

“Why would I see fit to dismiss you?” the general frowns, a crease between his brows. But he has not told you to speak freely, so you remain silent. “I do not consider you fit to leave.”

There’s a softness to his peridot gaze now. The part of you that still wants to cry wishes he would grant permission to drop all rank and care, so that you may bury your face in his jacket and stay there without guilt or reprimand. But “Sir?” is all you manage.

He utters your name and that is more than enough permission.

You crumble. Tears prick your eyes and Hux catches your arms before you simply collapse under the weight of everything you had been pushing back for the last twenty hours. You press your cheek to his silken jacket as he presses a solemn kiss to the crown of your head.

Hux settles you on the small sofa, pressing you close as you cling to his shoulders, the crawling emptiness still coiled in your chest, but softer now, more distant with each press of his lips to your forehead. “Tell me,” he says, when your wracking sobs have quieted to mere hiccoughs.

No, the general does not believe in mollycoddling.

_This_ \--this is necessity.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally submitted anonymously to (and subsequently published on) general-ginger-imagines.tumblr.com, for an another anon who was having an extraordinarily bad time. I hope this helped, and might help anyone else under heavy circumstances. My thanks again to the mod for accepting the submission.


End file.
